A little bit jealous

She was sitting on her teachers lap watching as the bubbles being blown floated through the air to land and pop on the other children’s heads. She looked up as I came in, and I could tell by the look in her eyes that she recognized me. She watched as I walked to her crib, picked up her bag full of empty bottles and dirty diapers, gathered the leftover milk and drooled-upon cloths, took her daily page from the clipboard that would tell me how much she had eaten, how little she had napped, and some of the fun things she had done today. She lifted her arms to me as I came close, cuddled in as I picked her up. She smiled as I kissed her cheeks, and grabbed on tight as we left the room.

A few short minutes later, we had ridden the elevator up the short journey to our floor and were fumbling with the keys to let ourselves in when the door opened, and there he stood.

She threw her head back and the sounds of her giggles wafted through the air. A huge grin appeared on her face, to match the smile on his. They stared at one another, entranced, both with huge, heartfelt smiles on their faces.

She only smiles like that for her daddy.

She is a happy baby, and likes to spread the happiness around by smiling at everyone she sees. She charms anyone who rides in an elevator with her, delights the old ladies we see on the street, causes the most confirmed of bachelors to make funny faces to keep the smile going. But none of these smiles are the same as the grin she gives her father every time she sees him. Every morning when he stumbles out of our bedroom to find us watching the morning news, every evening when we open the door as we return home, every mundane return to the room he happens to be sitting in – there it is, the special smile, the one that lights up her whole face with delight.

It makes my heart ache with delight to see this bond they have.

But I would be lying if I said it didn’t ache a little with jealousy, too.

She never smiles like that at me.

I know she loves me; there is no question of that. And I know that I am the only one that can calm her down when she’s become so tired she’s inconsolable, the only one who she wants in the middle of the night. I am her primary caretaker, the one who wakes with her, who feeds her, cleans her, picks out her clothes in the morning and her pyjamas at night. This is partially because of biology (ah yes, boobs) and partially because of choice (and yes, it was a choice – I just recently quit one job that would have taken me away from her too much of the time and left him in charge of these things, to start another that would let me do all of this because, indeed, my choice is THIS, this life, these things, exactly as they are) She loves me, and she needs me, and she shows that in a myriad of ways.

But she does not smile at me the way she smiles at him. It is something the two of them share, their identical gamine grins, their unique bond, the glue in their daddy-daughter duo. My heart aches with every smile the share, but it is the best of aches. Because while, yes, I am a little bit jealous – I am also so overwhelmingly happy to just be able to see that amazing smile, every day. (And I hope that someday, she’ll turn it on for me)

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As I held Oliver in the middle of the night last night, as the ONLY PERSON HE WOULD LET HOLD HIM, I both detested and adored the fact that he loves me so much. Your time will come. It will be worth the wait!

Aren’t they little heartbreakers? Vesper has learned to say ‘dada’ and ‘mama’ but thinks it’s really funny to say ‘dada’ when we point to me and ask who is this? It actually hurts my feelings, the sassy little joke of a 1-year old! 🙂 Found your blog after you commented on mine, your daugther is so adorable and your blog is hilarious! xoxo